


Who I Really Am

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, Coming Out, Grief/Mourning, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV John Watson, Pining, Podfic Available, Sexuality Crisis, and doesn't dwell on the details of the rest of s4, but ignores tfp entirely, set a year after s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9677030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: You don't tend to give up your heterosexual privilege without a fight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the incredible [Comme des enfants](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2316827) by [Eliane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane). Although this story is very much my own, I imagine the background story of John and Harry is similar to the one described there.
> 
> Thank you Akhenaten's Mummy for the beta - working with you is pure pleasure! And thank you [shreylock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shreylock), for encouraging my writing and for being there for me on Confession Day.
> 
> Podfic links in the end notes!

“I never told you how Clara and I got together.”

“No. You never did.” John stares out of the car window for a moment. The city is dark, the streets are wet, the orange light from the street lamps blinds his eyes at regular intervals. “I never asked”, he adds. “Sorry.”

“It's fine.” He turns his head and looks at Harry. She looks back at him with a faint smile. He blinks and when he opens his eyes again, there is an accusation in hers. “You should have asked.”

“I know. There's a lot of things I should have done. You have to know that I know that.”

“So, should I tell you now?”

“Does it matter now?”

“She was my first girlfriend. That's an important part of anyone's life.”

He nods. “You're right. I'm sorry. I do want to know.”

“I didn't know I was a lesbian back then”, Harry starts. “We were sixteen when we met. Drawn to each other instantly, I had never experienced such a thing before. I had never made a new best friend so quickly. We couldn't help it. She was hilarious, I couldn't stop laughing at everything she said. Our friends got really annoyed at us because we always split ourselves off from the group, we walked hand in hand faster than everyone else so they were all left behind and we didn't even notice. We didn't do it on purpose, it was like a physical law.”

John smiles at her. “Sounds nice.”

“It was.” Her voice mixes with the cab's engine. “She meant the world to me. And I could see she was just as drawn to me. We were together all the time, and if a day went by without us seeing each other, she called me. We talked about everything, and we comforted each other when our parents were being difficult.”

John makes a huff. “Wish I'd had that sort of thing too. When our parents were being difficult. You and I should have stuck together more.”

“She hugged me for hours when I was upset. Stroked my hair, and my cheeks. Pressed her forehead and nose against mine.”

“Yeah, I'm starting to see where this is going.”

“I didn't. Neither did she. This is what friends do, I thought. Best friends get close. They do anything for each other. They aren't put off by physical closeness, that's a ridiculous line to have between best friends.”

John shrugs. “Maybe it's not the same for boys as it is for girls. We're not allowed to be like that, I mean, but you are, I think. Maybe that made it harder for you to notice.”

“Probably. And it's probably not that uncommon that best friends sleep in the same bed when there's a sleepover. It may be less common to cuddle the whole night while sleeping, and to stroke one another's hair while awakening.”

“Yeah, that may be less common. You didn't know, even then?”

“I didn't even know when we had our big fight and didn't speak for weeks, and I was heartbroken not just because I missed talking to her, but also because she was insanely beautiful and out of reach.” Harry laughs shortly. “I wrote about it in my diary, a lot. Listed everything I missed about her. Hair. Nose. Cheeks. Smell.”

“Those are pretty clear signs of being in love”, John smiles. “All your friends must have seen it.”

“They did. We didn't.”

“Why?”

Harry shrugs. “You don't tend to give up your heterosexual privilege without a fight.”

They stare quietly at each other. “Yeah, I can't imagine”, John finally says.

“Can't you?”

He looks out the window again. Streetlight reflections on the wet pavement. “But eventually you did realise.”

“No John”, Harry says, annoyed. “I've known I was a lesbian my whole life. That's how it works, you're either attracted to men, to women or both. And you just know it.”

John nods and sighs. “Merry Christmas, Harry.”

***

Rosie is screaming into his ear. He tries to change her position once more, but she is like a piece of wood, she does not allow him to do anything at all to her.

“Shhh”, he repeats, his tongue sore from making this sound for the last half an hour. “I know you're hurting. Shhh. Try to sleep. It'll be better in the morning.”

“You know”, Harry says. “If you've had to ask yourself the same question for thirty years, there's probably something to it.”

“Yeah, can't you see I'm busy?” he answers in the same soothing voice, hoping it will eventually calm Rosie down.

Harry sits on top of the sink. “I'm just saying”, she says, studying her nails. “You keep settling on the same answer and the question keeps popping back up. Year after year.” She rolls her eyes. “Maybe try the other answer this time. See if that makes it stop.”

“It doesn't matter anyway.” John cradles the damp back of Rosie's blonde hair. “I don't need a relationship – I don't have time for a relationship. I have Rosie. She's my family. I'm a widower, and my dead wife was… what she was. I feel pretty done with attempts on romance. Maybe it was never for me anyway.”

“That's not what you told Sherlock.”

“What did I tell Sherlock?”

“That you wanted more. That you still do.”

“Well.” He is annoyed she knows about that. Stupid. Of course she does. “That's more than a year ago now. I won't seek it out. I won't make myself decide on whether I'm… If it comes up, it comes up.”

“It _does_ come up. We're having this conversation right now, aren't we.”

“You're the one bringing it up.”

Harry laughs. “You know that's a ridiculous thing to say to an empty apartment.”

***

“You know, if you've had to ask yourself the same question for thirty years, there's probably something to it.”

“No, you know what? That doesn't have to be true. This could all just be because of Sherlock. Because in this bloody society, apparently you're not allowed close friendships if you're a man. Why is it that we can't be seen together being best friends and loving each other, without everyone screaming that we're gay?”

Harry rolls her eyes. “John, this is far beyond an ordinary friendship! You are prepared to die for each other – he has done that, even.”

“Because that's what we have to be prepared for”, he explodes, “in order to have this bloody lifestyle!”

“And you can't live without each other, you are _miserable_ whenever you're apart-”

“That goes for all close friends!”

“And you're jealous when the other one has a partner! Sherlock was broken at your wedding, and don't tell me you were fine with Janine.”

“Janine doesn't count, they weren't even together for real – do you think I would approve of him playing her like that? It wasn't real, and she wasn't good enough for him anyway. Oh don't even start Harry, it doesn't mean anything, it only means I know him well enough to recognize who he's compatible with and not!”

“Remember how Sherlock left the wedding early?”

“Fine, but it's not strange to be jealous given that we've lived together so closely. We are important to each other and we want to keep spending time together. It's natural to be afraid that a spouse will come between us.”

“You have never loved anyone the way you love him. Yes, you loved Mary, more than any woman before her, in the beginning at least. Enough that you decided that was it, and married her. But that love was still nothing compared to Sherlock.”

“I don't think that's uncommon? Is it? To have friendships stronger than relationships. I mean, in a marriage you have the attraction as well, but a friendship is deeper, it's like… it's love on other levels, you know?”

“But is it really supposed to be like that? Should you settle for that kind of shallow love – is that even love? What if it's possible to feel love on those levels for a partner as well? I know you never have, but what if your partner is supposed to be your best friend. Imagine having that deep kind of bond _and_ the attraction.”

“Yeah, I've never experienced that.”

“You're wondering what his lips feel like.”

“No I- What! … does that even have to do with… Only because I've never seen lips that are so… Oh my God! Being straight doesn't mean being blind! He's an attractive man!”

Harry looks close to laughter, and John cannot have that.

“I'm so bloody tired of people assuming we're a couple”, he almost shouts. “They have suggested it over and over for so many years now that I've started to question it myself. That's what this whole thing is, it's just confusion put on me from everyone around me. Just because we don't fit into the template for a normative male friendship! It just pisses me off! We are like this because it makes sense to us and we love each other and I will not continue to question what that is, I will not risk our friendship and my sanity for it. This ends now!”

Rosie starts crying. John feels like an idiot, practically screaming in his empty living room when his daughter is trying to sleep the flu away. He goes to pick her up, murmuring apologies and soothing words.

“Remember when I told you about Clara?” Harry is standing close to them. “You said all our friends must have seen it. They did, and we didn't, because we just assumed we were straight. And believe me, it's easier than being gay, so it's very tempting to keep assuming it. You can't go on like that forever, though.”

“Well I've managed it half a lifetime”, John says, voice cold now. “I think I'll manage the rest.”

***

John has finally been able to calm down and forget about their conversation. He stands in the bathroom dressed in pyjamas, putting toothpaste on his toothbrush when Harry speaks again.

“So, are you in love with Sherlock?”

He meets her eyes in the mirror. “Harry! I just told you no!”

“And now you're making me ask you again. Why is that?” She tilts her head.

John sighs. “Perhaps”, he says and tries to sound calm, “because everyone assumes…”

“Yeah, yeah, we've done that bit already. Are you in love with him?”

Harry's eyes in the mirror look so honest, and John answers with the same honesty.

“I love him. I don't know, what is that line between friendship and love? Is it even a real one? If you love someone deeply enough… how am I supposed to classify it? He's the most important person in my life, apart from Rosie.”

“Sounds like love.”

“It is. And who cares if it's romantic love, anyway? I wouldn't want anything to be different than it is now. He wouldn't return my feelings, he doesn't want romance. He wants me in his life, he loves me and I know it. That's enough.”

“What do _you_ want, though?”

“Him. As my closest friend. And I've got that. Maybe I'm in love with him, maybe I'm not. It doesn't matter.”

“You've said this before, haven't you.”

John looks silently into the mirror for a few breaths. Harry looks back, waiting.

“Well, yeah. When he was… dead. I wondered. And I pondered it until it drove me mad and it didn't matter, he was dead, it wouldn't have made any difference.”

“He's alive now, though.”

“Still doesn't make any difference. It's fine the way it is.”

“Then why do you keep asking yourself the same question?”

“I don't know.” John resolutely puts the toothbrush in his mouth.

***

“Do you want to sleep with him, though?”

John crawls in under the duvet. “Don't want to think about it.”

“Why not”, Harry says, sitting cross-legged by the foot of the bed.

“Because it weirds me out, Harry, that's why! Now good night, I'm going to sleep.”

He turns out the lights.

***

“You know, if you've had to ask yourself the same question for thirty years, there's probably something to it.”

John sits up in the bed. “Yeah, I've looked at this bloody thing from every angle. For thirty years. I've dated women. For thirty years. If there was something to this, don't you think it would have been inevitable? If it was something that really mattered. Maybe I just have some weak attraction to men. My attraction to women is obviously stronger. I've been able to live without men for thirty years, that should tell you something.”

“No, that should tell _you_ something, but it doesn't. You keep reviewing the question anyway. Why is that?”

“Just stop it now. I'm too old for having a sexuality crisis. People usually know they're gay when they are kids, don't they? I still don't know. That should mean I'm straight. You said so yourself; you just _know_.”

“No, I didn't say that. _You_ said that. Wow, starting to lose a grip on reality, are you.”

“Isn't there something to it, though? If I was attracted to men, should I really have been able to suppress it for this many years?”

“You underestimate heteronormativity, John. She creeps into your mind and colours your perception of the world. And she promises you candy if you stay loyal to her.”

John lies down and closes his eyes.

***

“You know…”

“Oh, Harry.”

“… if you've had to ask yourself the same question for thirty years, there's probably something to it.”

“Good night.”

***

“Just try it out for one day. As an intellectual experiment. One day, and if it isn't right, you can put it to rest.”

John sighs. No sleep tonight, then. “Yeah, Harry, that sounds ridiculous, it hardly works that way.”

“Hey, I have a question then.” Harry sounds suddenly fierce. “Why do you refuse to do it? Why won't you even consider it?”

“Because-” John answers quickly, only to feel like a classic fool when he doesn't know how to continue. Before he can save his face Harry goes on:

“Because you're a homophobe.”

“Damn it Harry, I'm not a homophobe! My own sister is a lesbian!”

“Then why didn't you stand up for me, John? Why did you abandon me the night I came out?”

“I didn't… I didn't abandon you.”

“Yes you did and you know it, or else we wouldn't be having this conversation! Or have you forgotten I'm not actually here?”

John closes his eyes, hoping Harry will be gone when he opens them again. But she is still there, legs crossed, eyes glistening in the dark.

“All right”, he sighs. “I know. It was rubbish, the way I left when you told us about Clara. I should have defended you.”

“No, you should have held me. You should have come into my room and asked me all about my girlfriend.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I don't know.”

“Because you're a homophobe.”

“No! Stop saying that! I'm not like them.”

“Well I know you don't hate gay people! And I know you don't judge them, but you still think of them as being different, and you pray to God that you're not like them.”

John hates his throat, being all tight and refusing to let his voice carry. “That's not true”, he whispers fiercely.

“Then why won't you try out the other answer to your permanent question? Why won't you go one day, just one day, presuming you are bisexual?”

He stares at her in the darkness. They are silent for a long time, could have been hours.

“I'm so sorry, Harry”, he says at last. “I don't know what else to say. I hated myself for leaving you that night. I know that's when I lost you and now I can never get you back and it breaks my heart, do you hear me? It breaks my heart.”

“I know, John.” Harry lays down on top of the covers. With the darkness smoothing out the lines of her face, he sees himself in her more clearly. Those are his eyes. That's his jawline. “You never treated me the same after that. You never got to know the lesbian Harry. If you had, John, you would have seen she was the same. In every way the same sister you'd shared your whole life with.”

“That's not… I never doubted that.”

“No. But you were scared. You were worried being gay meant behaving a certain way, and if one didn't follow those rules one wouldn't get to be gay.”

“I wasn't worried you'd change, that wasn't it.”

“I'm not talking about me now, John.”

***

“You know, if you've had to ask yourself the same question for thirty years, there's probably something to it.”

“Fine. One day.”

***

The tube is fairly empty. The rare London sunlight hits John's forehead through the window when they are out of the tunnels, and when they are underground he sees the reflection of his own face on top of the darkness. They stop. The doors open. The doors close. They start moving. It is soothing.

A movement in the corner of his eye. A man with brown skin sits down at a seat on the opposite side of the carriage. John glances at him briefly. Turns his eyes back to the window mirror.

Harry is also there now, sitting across him, reflection in the window.

“You're bi today”, she reminds him. “Look at that man one more time.”

 _Right_ , he almost answers before he remembers.

The man is tall. Dark and curly hair like Sherlock's, but shorter. The skin tone is warm, especially when the sunlight hits it.

“So?” Harry prompts.

Yes. He is attractive. An attractive man.

“Yes”, Harry answers, “even I can see that. How do you feel, though?”

John quietly clears his throat. He does not want to think about that.

“We knew that already, or else you would have settled this ages ago.”

He does not _have_ to think about that. He already knows. Damn it, he already knows.

“So let yourself know”, Harry smiles. “Let yourself think about it. What would you like to do?”

John shakes his head minutely. No. That would be forbidden.

“Don't be ridiculous. Why would it be? Do you think what I did with Clara was forbidden?”

Of course not. No. John glances over again. There is a gap between the man's scarf and the point where his hair ends. A small area of exposed skin. It would be warm there. How warm, against his lips? Would he be able to feel the pulse there? It would smell nice. He would taste the skin, the man would gasp and let his head fall back…

The train stops and John hurls himself off it. He does not know where he is, but he walks as fast as he can through the underground station to reach the fresh air.

“How do you even know?” he pants when he has finally found an empty street. “What this is?”

“You already know”, Harry answers, immediately turning up by his side.

“No”, John stubbornly protests. “I know that was an attractive man. I know it would probably be enjoyable to sleep with him. I'm not blind.”

“Yes, but can _you_ imagine doing it?”

“I don't even understand the question!” John hears anger in his own voice. “He's an attractive human being, I'm guessing he's warm and soft like everyone else! I wouldn't mind it, no! Why would I? I'm a freaking human too!”

“Well that's your answer.”

“It's not that simple, though! Why do you insist on making it so simple? You said so yourself, you saw it too!”

“But I wouldn't want to sleep with him just because I can acknowledge he's attractive!”

“Why, what's the bloody difference?”

“He's a man and I'm only attracted to women!”

“I don't understand that at all.”

He walks a few more steps before he realises Harry has stopped. He turns around and sees her smile.

“That's because you're bisexual, stupid.”

***

_Received interesting email. Rosie must do without you tomorrow. SH_

His fingers hover over the screen. It goes black two times, he has to push the button to make the bluish light shine again. When he types, he types quickly, relying solely on autocorrect to compose the message.

_Only if it's dangerous._

He hits send before he can think.

“Hm. Kinda flirty”, Harry comments.

“That's not flirty”, John snaps, regretting the text already.

“Oh but it is.”

The buzzing interrupts his answer.

_You can rely on me, soldier. An 8, at least. SH_

“Junkies”, Harry snorts. “Don't need the whiskey now, do you.”

John ignores her to type an answer.

_If it's an 8, shouldn't you go immediately?_

_No. Lost without my blogger. SH_

A pang in his chest. Cannot help the smile.

_I'll check with Mrs Hudson._

_Already done. Drop Rosie off at 9.30. SH_

_Thanks. I'll see you then._

He throws the phone carelessly to the coffee table.

“Great”, Harry says lightly and flings herself onto the sofa beside him. “A case, it's been a while.”

“Yeah.” John is still smiling, unsure of why.

“Maybe because you've just been flirting with your crush, silly”, Harry laughs.

“No”, John says, reaching for the glass on the table. “It's just that it will be good to be out. Maybe take my thoughts off you. No offence.”

“None taken. You're right, you certainly need to go out. It'll be different now, though.”

He drinks his whiskey, but she goes on even as he does not answer.

“You've hardly been outside since you found out you're bi. You can tell me it's a coincidence but I know it's not. And things have happened with you during the last days. You won't be able to forget it this time. You'll be outside and you'll be bi. You'll see men and you'll be bi. You'll see Sherlock and you'll be bi.”

“Stop being dramatic. I'll get used to it.”

“I'm not dramatic at all”, she says, and it is true, her tone is still light. “It's your listening that makes it dramatic. Nothing wrong with being bi, you know.”

“Yes I know. Harry.” He smiles at her. “It's all fine.”

“That's my John”, she smiles back.

His eyes briefly touch the phone on the table, and he lifts the glass to his lips again.

***

Rosie babbles all the way there, half of her words indistinguishable to anyone but John. He babbles back. He feels light-headed, high, bright and vivid, like a child on his birthday. He does not know why.

“Oh you do know why.”

He does not know why.

The tube is full of people. Women, men. They surround Rosie's stroller, sometimes interrupting John's conversation with his daughter to tell him she is precious.

“Come on”, Harry exclaims the fourth time, “tell us something we don't know!”

Sometimes Harry interrupts their conversation as well, to point at one stranger or another. Women, men. Yes, John silently agrees. She is handsome. He is beautiful. No, she is not my type at all. He, though, the way he holds his head.

It feels big. Almost too big to fit inside him.

“Remember”, Harry sings. “This is allowed.”

He remembers that carefully. And he sees so much, and he wants to laugh when he recognizes all of it. This is not the first time he has seen it. He has always seen it.

“This is allowed.”

“You think so too, Rosie?” he says, sticking his head down to the stroller.

Rosie explodes with laughter and grabs his nose with her soft fingers.

“Okay, let's get off the tube, yeah? Let's go to Baker Street.”

“Yeaaaaa!” Rosie shouts.

***

That door. 221B. He recognizes the light-headed feeling now: he is nervous.

“You shouldn't be, though”, Harry says. “This is your home.”

“Well no”, John mutters.

“Well yes.”

Mrs Hudson opens the door before he can start fussing with the stroller and the stairs.

“John, dear!” She hugs him and examines his face. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine”, he smiles back reassuringly, “it's fine. You know. During the circumstances.”

“I understand. Well don't you worry, Rosie and I are going to have a lovely time together, and Sherlock gets to take proper care of you.”

“That how you wanna put it?” Harry asks as Mrs Hudson lifts Rosie up to greet her. John takes the stroller inside and hesitates at the foot of the stairs.

“Go on”, Mrs Hudson smiles and he feels stupid.

Sherlock is standing by the window. He is looking down at the street, and his back is very nicely framed by the expensive suit. Neck. Curls.

He spins around.

“John!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together once.

The smile spreads on John's face. He is not nervous now. Not sad. Just happy.

“Hug him”, Harry suggests behind him.

John ignores her. “Are we leaving at once?”

“Cab's just arrived”, Sherlock answers, leaping towards him to grab his coat. John inhales when he is as closest. Sherlock swings the coat around, twirling the air, filling it with his scent.

“Imagine how intense that smell is by his neck”, Harry says. “Or in his hair. You should hug him. It's been too long.”

“You wanna tell me about the case?” John asks, trying not to let his smile fade at Harry's words.

“I'll tell you in the cab”, Sherlock says, energetically wrapping the scarf around his neck. He dashes towards the door and pauses in front of John – far too close. “The game is on.”

Fierce eyes. Mesmerizing hint of a smile on the lips. The lips. His breath on John's face.

His heart is pounding, his face is flushing, his groin is tingling.

“You are bisexual”, Harry says when Sherlock flies down the stairs.

As if he needed reminding.

***

“Well. That was exhausting.”

John is sitting in his own living room. Rosie is half-asleep on his lap. He needed to feel her warmth.

“ _You_ were exhausting”, he answers.

“Given that I am you, we can easily deduce who was the exhausting one here.”

“You didn't leave once, not once. Can't you leave during the cases at least?”

“No. You apparently need me here. You need someone to tell you these things since you can't seem to bear doing it yourself.”

“I know”, he sighs into Rosie's hair.

“Case closed, at least.”

“Yeah.”

“Nice and dangerous.”

“Yeah.”

“You were a wonderful team.”

“Not just that.” He closes his eyes.

“No, you were _incredible_ together. You always are. And he was incredible. Astonishing. You're really lucky you're such a good shot so you get to be around a genius like that.”

John laughs joylessly. “You think that's why he has me around?”

“Of course. You saved his life, again. He wouldn't close as many cases without you.”

“Hmm.”

“And what the hell is up with his lips? Has he done something new to them?”

“No”, John mumbles. “They've always been like that.”

“But today you couldn't take your eyes off them.”

“I know.”

“You could before, though.”

“Yeah. No idea how. It's always been like this.”

“You did a good job of hiding it, John.”

“I'm exhausted. Not even from the case.”

“Yeah, you didn't do a very good job of hiding it, John. You were excited and drawn in, and then you switched to being grumpy and absent. And then back to excited. My God. You listened more to a dead woman than to him.”

“I can blame it on the grief. He probably does, too. He wouldn't care, either way.”

“Of course he would. He loves you.”

“No, I'm just a very good shot.”

“Hey, don't you dare forget about the best man speech.”

“You weren't even there.”

“ _John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship._ ”

“Well.” John's throat burns. “I wasn't very warm today, was I.”

***

Texts. He stares at the _SH_. He stares and stares.

Every time the phone buzzes he stops breathing. Staring, staring.

He has forgotten how to answer. How does he normally answer? What does he say?

Sometimes he remembers. He knows how to play his part, so he does, and they go on cases, and John is so tired, just tired. He tags along, but he rarely remembers how to concentrate or how to even speak.

He does not want to be deduced. He cannot talk about this. He hardly dares to open his mouth.

They both blame it on the grief, without ever saying. Sometimes he sees Sherlock is about to ask. John always turns away before he gets the chance.

When there is proper danger, the adrenalin fills him and rules out everything that is not important. It does not allow him to be careful about how he acts around Sherlock. John easily drifts back into how he usually is, how they are. It is familiar and it is exhilarating, not only the danger and the adrenalin, but the looks and the endorphin. He is high, high, high.

And when he crashes down afterwards, it drains the air out of him as if his lungs have forgotten why they sit in his chest.

Sometimes he cannot bring himself to do it. _SH_. He stares and stares. And he fetches another drink.

***

“You realize this is it.”

“This is what?”

“You know what I mean. You're inside my head.”

“Say it out loud.”

“This is why I've refused to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

***

“That I'm bisexual.”

“Yes, I know.”

***

“I didn't judge you. I didn't think you'd changed. I was afraid to find out you were still Harry. That would mean it's okay to be gay. That would mean I could be too. I should have supported you. But I was scared. It was selfish of me.”

“Yes.”

“It was big and it was dizzying because if you could, I could too. And I wasn't- I wasn't strong as you. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't be that person.”

“But you didn't have to. That's what I told you, you would change so little it would actually be a bit dull.”

“I know. Now. But I didn't want to know. Because then I could do it.”

“Being gay just wasn't for John Watson, was it.”

“You don't tend to give up your heterosexual privilege without a fight.”

“Right.”

“And now.”

“Yes.”

“It's okay to be gay.”

“Yes.”

“Which means I can be.”

“Yes.”

“Which means I'm bi.”

“Mhm.”

“And I refused to admit it because.”

“Yes?”

“Because it would mean.”

***

“That I am in love with my best friend.”

***

The air is thick around him. Completely still. The words are still sitting there, settled upon the oxygen molecules surrounding him. He does not know how to take the words down. They just hang there.

He is suddenly alone. For the first time since he got the call, Harry is not there. John becomes aware of how cold it is. He should have known before, even if he did not feel it on his skin. He knows the date – it is the 15th of January, it is The Day.

A car pulls over behind him. John gets up from the wooden bench. Right. Time to be the stoic grieving brother. He has to say hello to every guest arriving at the church.

The words are still stuck in the air. Can people actually see them? _That I am in love with my best friend._ John goes inside to wait there instead. The words follow him, though.

He does not like the look on people's faces. There is an elephant in the room and it gets bigger and bigger every time a new guest gives a strained smile. No one is surprised, and John hates them for it. No one wants to say the words, but they are all thinking the same thing. That she had it coming. That she did this to herself.

He thinks it too.

But is it even true, though? If he had not stormed off when she came out to the family, would she still have needed the drinks? Wouldn't it be true to say that _he_ has done this to her?

He will never get a chance to do it right. What a fucking joke to have this ceremony in a church, pretending there is a God present, when the first time John can explain to her why he abandoned her, is the day of her bloody funeral. God is not here. Not anywhere.

Someone is standing in front of him. He expects Harry to be back, but when he raises his eyes he sees Sherlock. Proper and handsome in a black suit.

“John.” Sherlock's voice is low. “Remember what I said?”

John only looks at him. Hallucinating Sherlock while he is still alive, that is new. Not unfamiliar however, he was dead for two years after all.

“You're human, John. This is not on you. You can never think this is on you.” His voice is so sweet.

John's eyelids slide shut. He starts when he feels Sherlock's hand in his, and quickly opens his eyes again. He stares at their hands. Sherlock's skin is cool. And very real.

He is actually here.

John meets his eyes again. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm here for the funeral, John”, Sherlock answers patiently.

“I never told you when it was. Or where.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Now let's take a seat.”

They do not speak any more. Sherlock never lets go of John's hand. They sit down on the first row and no one questions Sherlock's right to sit there. It is only John there anyway. And maybe they can all see the words floating around him, maybe there are in fact two elephants in this room. _That I am in love with my best friend._ Sherlock should see the words too. Sherlock Holmes has to be able to deduce them. It should not matter today, but it does. It matters especially today.

John did not think he would cry. But he does. He cries during the whole thing, silent streams down his face. It is Sherlock's skin against his that does it, it is his refusal to let go of John's hand. His firm grip seems to challenge John: _Don't you dare try to do this alone, I'm here for you whether you like it or not._

John likes it. Even though he cries.

He cries because he realises that he misses his sister, has done so for the last twenty years.

He cries because Harry will never know all the words he has said to her after she died.

He cries because his parents are not here, because Harry lost them when she came out, and that means he has as well, he lost them on this very day.

He cries because he pushed Harry away. And because he pushed himself away equally much.

He cries because she managed to live her life being true to herself, something he was never brave enough to do, so she had to be brave for both of them. And when she died it is as if that bravery died with her.

He cries because it is his turn now. And he does not know if he can do it.

And he cries because he does not want the service to end. He does not want Sherlock to take away this touch. God, John has underestimated him all these years. If he would have imagined Sherlock trying to comfort someone he would have laughed, he would have imagined it painfully awkward, whether it was with words or with touches. In reality John has never known such unconditional comfort as the one Sherlock offers.

It breaks his heart.

Because he is not in love with a cruel high-functioning sociopath, is he. He is actually in love with a man who is good and pure and human in a way that is so raw it hurts to watch him. His best friend. Who just does not love him back.

***

Phone vibrates against the table.

John puts the glass down and picks it up. Holds it in his hand for a moment. Bracing himself, though it is not clear against what.

“Do you want to check that text?”

“Yes Harry”, he mutters, “why wouldn't I.”

_Case wrapped up, arrest made. According to Lestrade the brother was still wearing the chicken costume. SH_

John smiles. The default reaction.

Happiness for a few seconds. They were good today. He had to leave for Rosie in the middle of it, but it was fine. They were good.

Happiness is replaced with a stinging feeling. He puts the phone down and covers his face with his palms. Reaches out for the glass with eyes still closed, empties it.

Phone buzzes again.

_Mrs Hudson is free tomorrow, if Rosie's father feels the need for adrenalin. SH_

John rises from the sofa. Ignores Harry standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the wall, watching him. Lifts the half empty bottle from the sink.

“John.”

“Harry.” He does not look at her as he pours another glass.

***

Sherlock no longer insists when John is not answering. Like he respects John's privacy, or something. It is disturbing. Not at all like him. John wishes he would stop. And yet the thought of him stopping, and coming back to invade John's privacy and his life, terrifies him.

***

Rosie is asleep. The phone is silent tonight. John goes into the kitchen.

“John. What are you doing?”

He ignores Harry when he lifts the glass out of the cabinet.

“Not tonight again, John.”

The glass slams against the sink. He screws the lid off the bottle.

“John, do you remember what happened two days before Christmas?”

John turns his back to her to go sit on the sofa, but she appears right before him in the kitchen doorway.

He stops in front of her. “Yes, Harry, that was quite memorable. You ruined Christmas.”

She laughs. “By dying?”

“And then you came back to haunt me and ruin New Year's as well.” He takes a sip.

“Seemed like you needed to be checked upon.”

“This isn't like that”, John says, lowering his glass.

“Then do tell me what this is like, because I recognize this only too well.”

They stare at each other until John has to look away.

“That story on the news this morning”, he says in a low voice. “The young man who got beaten up after kissing his boyfriend goodnight at his doorstep.”

“I know.”

“And America's new president. Remind me, how many hours did he spend in the White House before the LGBT page was taken off the website?”

Harry slowly shakes her head. “Not many.”

John puts his glass to his mouth and closes his eyes. “I'm just so bloody tired.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No, I'm not afraid! Not for my own safety, anyway, but the idiocy of _people_ in this world, yeah, that scares the crap out of me. I'm disgusted, is what I am. And I'm sad. I'm bloody disappointed in this stupid wrecked world and it's exhausting.”

“This is hardly news to you, John. You've seen terrible things in your life.”

“Yeah, I've seen so much cruelty, I've long known what shape this world is in. I've known it isn't easy to be LGBT and I've known that's not fair, but now, now every news story hits me like…”

“It hits you like they're all you?”

“No, like they're all _you_.”

He leans against the wall, letting himself slide down to sitting. He drinks and Harry stands still in the doorway, watching.

“You're not as brave as you say”, she says.

“It's not me saying that.”

“You're actually a coward.”

“I know.”

“You do think you are right, and they are wrong. And still you just give up, isolate yourself in your apartment and hide who you really are. If you want things to change, you need to stand up for them.”

“Yes, and you need to be strong in order to do that. I don't feel strong, Harry, okay? I don't have it in me right now. So please just let me have a little peace and quiet to finish my drink.”

She watches him in silence. Her eyes make every sip give him nausea.

“Please, stop it”, he eventually breathes.

“They're not worth it”, Harry says.

“I don't want to talk about them. Please.”

“They won't accept you, and therefore they can fuck off. They're not worth this.”

John empties the glass.

“They didn't come to the funeral of their own daughter”, Harry continues. “How can you still care about what they'll say?”

“You wouldn't understand”, John says, coming to his feet.

“Of course I bloody wouldn't”, Harry outbursts, “because I've been living my life without them since I was a scared nineteen-year-old, and I was so fucking better off! Coming out was the most scary thing I'd ever done, it was so brave that it should make any parent _proud_. But instead they don't forgive me for being who I am even when I've died.”

John's eyes hurt. He has unconsciously reached his hand to clutch the neck of the bottle. He puts his glass beside it, turning away from Harry, lifting the bottle.

“ _John!_ ”

He crumples forward, his whole body turned inwards. His hand is still clasping the bottle when it clanks against the sink. His face is painfully wrinkled up, he cannot get enough air.

He raises his head to watch his sister. He can barely see her even though his eyes are dry, but he does not care to make an effort to clear his blurry vision.

“I can't do it”, he whispers. “I can't go through what you went through.”

Harry leaves the doorway and comes to him, she reaches her hand out as if to put it on top of his, but she cannot touch him, because she is dead.

“Then do it differently.”

The kitchen quakes when the bottle breaks against the floor. Shattered glass scream in his ears.

***

_Double homicide by the river. Need your help. SH_

***

_Central Station, tomorrow at 2.42 PM. Only investigating, you could bring Rosie. SH_

***

_Mrs Hudson appears to have sprained her ankle. Need your help. SH_

***

_Dinner? SH_

***

“Harry?”

“No.”

“What if he feels the same way?”

“He doesn't.”

John keeps his eyes fixed at the mushrooms he is currently chopping. “How do you know?”

“ _Not really my area._ ”

“He meant girlfriends. He meant he's gay.”

“No, he meant relationships in general. _Y_ _ou should know that I consider myself married to my work. And while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for anything-_ ”

“Yes, the first night we met! He has changed since then.”

“ _Romantic entanglement would complete you as a human being_ , you said to him. What did he answer?”

John still keeps his eyes away from Harry. Puts the mushrooms in the frying pan. “ _That doesn't even mean anything_ ”, he answers quietly.

“Well, there you go.”

“But then he got up and hugged me.”

“Because you were sad and your wife just died.”

“He stroked my neck.”

“Excellent thing to do if you want to comfort someone. He was just being a good friend, John. Let it go.”

John stubbornly stirs the mushrooms. “He left my wedding early.”

“Yeah, have you met him? Not the most socially skilled person. Weddings wouldn't exactly make him comfortable, would they. Or maybe he was just bored and found it dull. Besides, he spent the same wedding flirting with Janine.”

“He was using her.”

“But he did sleep with her. You heard them in the bath. He's not gay, sweetheart. And we haven't even mentioned Irene.”

John closes his eyes briefly. “I didn't intend to.”

“He was heartbroken when he thought she was dead. Then he saved her life, despite everything she'd done to him.”

“He never answers her texts, though.”

“Yes he does, sometimes. He's a heterosexual sociopath who enjoys being beaten and drugged by women who are as clever as him.”

“But that's not love. What he has with Irene, whatever it is.” He keeps his eyes furiously fixed at his cooking, hearing himself sound silly but refusing to stop. “It's not even close to what he has with me. He has died for me.”

“You don't know what he had to do to save her, it could have been just as dangerous as Moriarty for all you know. And who are you to say whether what he feels for Irene is love or not?”

“She is alive and out there somewhere, and he lives his life here and is perfectly fine. But when _I_ turn my back on him he spins into some suicidal addict spiral-”

“Wasn't that some sort of plan? It had nothing to do with you.”

John turns the kitchen fan on, somehow hoping his words will sound less needy if they drown in the noise. “It happened three times, though. When I got married, when he was to leave after he shot Magnussen, and when Mary died. Is it really a coincidence? Come on, we both know how much I mean to him.”

“Because you're close friends. I don't think it's uncommon to have friendships stronger than relationships. He has the attraction with Irene, and with you he has the deep friendship. Don't mix them up.”

“But I feel both of them. For him.” He actually sounds like a stubborn child now.

“And he obviously doesn't. He must know by now that you feel this way. You've been flirting with him like crazy-”

“I have not!”

“Yes you have, you've tried not to, but you can't help doing it. And even if he doesn't want romance for himself, he's Sherlock Holmes – he sees through everyone and everything, he knows how flirty you sound. And he hasn't made a move.”

John can't help a mischievous smile at the next quote he mentions. “ _I prefer my doctors clean-shaven._ ”

Harry laughs. “He doesn't understand these things, he doesn't know how flirty that sounded.”

John does not laugh back. “You don't give him enough credit. He isn't as oblivious as we think. At your funeral…” He pauses, pushing the pain away by converting it to anger. “Sherlock Holmes being a sociopath is nothing but bullshit! He has been misunderstood his whole life until he started to wave a false diagnosis in front of him in advance, just so no one could get to him any more. He's had no friends before he met me, and can you even imagine what that must have felt like to him? How thrilled and terrified he was when he met me and I _stayed_? Because he is just so fucking good that he doesn't even know it himself, and he thinks _I'm_ the one of us who's settled for less than I deserve.”

John slams furiously while he cooks, still not looking to Harry. “Truth is, I'm not half as good a man as he is. Fuck it, I'll be honest now. Sometimes when he looks at me, it looks like he loves me. Like he's in pain every bloody time he sees me. I'm not saying he's in love with me, but if he is, he somehow thinks it's worth it to still be my friend and stand that pain every day, rather than lose me. Even when I married someone else he stuck around, just to get whatever I would give him, however little that was. He spits on sentiment and romance but only because he feels it like it's burning him, and he still stays. That is something I would never be able to do, Harry. Never. I would rather cut him out of my life than endure both having him and not having him at the same time.”

The words have run out. The air as well.

Harry is silent. And John knows that silence. He tries to keep standing up straight under it, but it is pressing down on his shoulders.

Sherlock would disapprove of this outrage. “Evidence, John. One can not deduce based on interpretations clouded by sentiment. Stick to the facts, do not engage in this pointless sentimental chatter.” Sounds disturbing in Harry's voice.

Evidence. Right. He finally turns to her. He looks her straight in the eye and says:

“ _John, there_ _'s_ _something I should say, I've meant to say always and then_ _never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now._ ”

As he was expecting, the compassion in Harry's eyes is unbearable.

“John, listen to yourself. You are desperately looking for things that aren't there. I'm not going to repeat the facts to you one more time because I know it's hurting you, but they are enough to make a deduction. He doesn't feel that way and he never can. Don't do this to yourself. You will only hurt yourself more if you keep doing this.”

John turns away. Turns off the stove. Nods.

***

The doorbell rings. John crosses the apartment as quickly and quietly as he can not to wake Rosie.

Sherlock fills his doorway. Coat, cheekbones, curly hair, the sight of it all hits John in the face. Yep, that is Sherlock. John has not realised how long it has been.

“That's a lie”, Harry says behind him. “You're ridiculously aware of how long it's been.”

“Sherlock”, John allows himself to say, it could be interpreted as surprise since he was not expecting him. But his voice does not sound surprised, it sounds relieved and agonized at the same time.

It is only then he takes in the expression on Sherlock's face. He looks fierce. He has his collar pulled up as if he is prepared for battle, hard-set resolution is tensing his features, and his eyes are boring holes into John.

“What's going on?” John asks. That look is enough to put John into war mode.

“Who can we call about Rosie”, Harry says, “is Molly free today?”

“May I come in?” The softness in Sherlock's voice does not match his look at all. He sounds tentative and unsure, but does his very best to cover it up on his face.

“Sure. Yeah”, John steps aside and lets Sherlock through.

“You're smelling him when he passes, aren't you.”

He wants to reply, _Only because he smells fucking incredible_ , but he does not even look Harry's way.

John closes the door and turns to Sherlock, looking insecure on the hall carpet.

“Is there a case? Do you need me to come?”

“What? No”, Sherlock answers. “No case.”

“Okay. You just look…”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He looks at Sherlock as he twists and turns uncomfortably, coat swishing slightly around his ankles. “Well then”, John clears his throat, “find yourself a hanger. Do you want some tea?”

“John”, Harry sighs, “then he will stay longer.”

John bites his lip.

“Tea. Yes. Good.” Sherlock's burning gaze is turned away from John now and he starts unbuttoning the coat.

“Right.” John goes into the kitchen, letting his hands start the tea-making dance they know so well.

“Wow”, Harry says from the top of the sink, “he looks _really_ messy. And absurdly handsome. This is gonna be unbearable, isn't it.”

“I won't need your commentary through it”, John mutters, immediately regretting it; Sherlock undoubtedly has super-hearing powers along with everything else.

When he enters the living room, one tea cup in each hand, Sherlock sits in one of the chairs, palms pressed together under his chin, eyes closed. There is a frown between his eyebrows.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens his eyes, lets his hands fall and forces a smile. “Thank you John”, he says when he receives the cup.

John sits on the sofa. “What's the matter, Sherlock? Is everything alright?”

“What? I'm fine.”

“It's just, you seem wound up.”

Sherlock shakes his head in annoyance. “I'm fine, stop asking about me.”

“O… kay.” John takes a sip. It is too hot.

“I… I just wanted to see if you're okay. If you need any help.” Sherlock's hands are pressed hard around the hot cup and John fixes his eyes on it. “If you need anything, anything at all, I want to help.”

“Thank you”, John says automatically, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's tea, on Sherlock's hands. They are so beautiful. How the fuck do a couple of hands get to break his heart just by the beauty of them. “I'm fine. It's… fine.”

“Yes but…” Sherlock's voice sounds urgent in a way John is not at all familiar with. “I know you're grieving. It must be… Maybe you need some help with Rosie? Maybe…” He stops. John cannot remember ever hearing Sherlock sound so insecure. But he feels Sherlock's eyes, watching John with that unflinching stare. John quickly looks up to see it, then looks away again as if he has been burned.

“That's kind of you”, he says, forcing his voice to sound casual. “I'll… let you know, I guess.”

“John.” Sherlock sounds desperate now.

“John”, Harry says from the doorway, “come on. Look at him at least.”

John briefly closes his eyes, then meets Sherlock's.

“Don't… do this again”, Sherlock says. “Don't isolate yourself, you don't need to. I know I haven't always been reliable, but the vow I made you is dictating my every course of action and I will never leave you-” Sherlock cuts himself off, trying to ignore the fact that he has to start over: “-leave you alone if you need me. I want to help, with anything I can, let me help. Don't do this again.”

“Again”, Harry says softly. “Don't do this _again_.”

John tries to smile at the unbearable vulnerability in front of him. “Hey, it's not about you”, he says and tries to sound soothing. “This is not like… it's not like when Mary died. I'm not… it's not the same thing. I don't mean to…”

“Push you away?” Harry says. “John, you've got to finish these sentences. Would be a lie though, wouldn't it?”

“Good”, Sherlock says and tries to smile back. “Good.” He lifts his cup and puts it to his mouth. John has to look away.

“Jealous of a tea cup”, Harry laughs, “yeah, John, you are so beyond help, aren't you.”

“So”, says John a little too loudly. “How have you been?”

Sherlock shrugs and starts telling him about the investigations at the Central Station and the double homicide case that turned out to be boring and dull. John does not allow himself to really listen, but tries to smile and laugh at the right places. The worried look on Sherlock's face tells him he does not succeed and the conversation fades. John hates it when Sherlock looks that confused. This is not fair to him, not at all.

“So how is Rosie?” Sherlock asks in a low voice.

“Asleep.”

“Obvious.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock takes another quiet sip. “You really don't have to do it alone. You just lost your sister.”

“He's like a new man”, Harry says, only to shove the dagger deeper into his chest. “Look at him all sincere and compassionate. This must cost him, he looks like a lost child.”

 _I know that_ , he wants to scream at her. _I know._

“He's terrified of doing the wrong thing”, Harry continues mercilessly.

“Just… Tell me what you need”, Sherlock all but pleads.

“Really, Sherlock. I'm fine.” John is very aware he does not look even remotely fine, though.

“You do know that you have plenty of people to give you a hand with Rosie. Mrs Hudson loves her. Molly too. They would be delighted to help out more.” John quietly wills him not to say it, but he does. “And me. I… love her. I'm here.”

John cannot help it, he looks powerlessly at Harry. “He just doesn't stop, does he”, she says, shaking her head. “Pretends he's a sociopath for years and hides every hint of a feeling, and when he exposes them he just pours them all out at once. He doesn't know how to shield himself. You're gonna break him if you don't say something, John. He's gonna fall to pieces right on your living room floor.”

“I know you do, Sherlock”, John says, looking back into Sherlock's pleading eyes. “And she… she loves you too. She seems oddly fond of you explaining every phenomenon of nature to her in excruciating detail.”

“Well”, Sherlock says. “I've discovered clear signs of her being a genius. No need to deny her thirst for knowledge just because she can't form a coherent sentence.”

John chuckles quietly and Sherlock joins him, clearly relieved.

“John, I…” He sighs with his eyes down his tea, his tense shoulders sink and he looks up, for the first time looking calm and sure. “I think you should move back. To Baker Street.”

John's smile fades.

“Oh Sherlock”, Harry says. “Please don't. Don't make him do this to you.”

“This place is tedious”, Sherlock continues. “It's an inconvenient location, it's off-puttingly quiet and far too clean.”

“You mean the lack of body parts in the kitchen put you off?” John tries to joke.

“And you don't need it. It's too big for the two of you. At Baker Street you wouldn't have to pay as much, and you wouldn't have to deal with Rosie all by yourself. Mrs Hudson is there – and I am there. I will help out, I promise. I won't play the violin when she's asleep and I will keep my experiments out of reach for her, I won't even take on cases that put those close to me at risk. I would never let anything happen to her, she would be perfectly safe at Baker Street, I assure you. Just. Come home. To Baker Street. I mean.”

John cannot bear it. He rises from the couch, clutching the cup in his hands, and moves towards the kitchen. He shows his broken face only to Harry.

“You couldn't do it again, could you”, she says softly. “You can't go back to pretending you don't love him.”

“John”, Sherlock says behind him, and it sounds as if the word falls out of his mouth without his consent.

John forces his voice to carry his reply. “I don't want to.”

***

Another wooden bench. The river runs in front of them, the trees whisper around them. They have been walking for hours and hours.

It is still cold, and John does not care. He stares over at the other side of the river. Harry does the same. She has been mirroring his every move the whole day. And for once she has been silent.

John finally breaks it.

“It's time to tell him, isn't it.”

“What do you want him to say?”

“I don't know. He will probably have no idea what to do with this. Maybe he won't even answer, just be quiet and stare and that's it.”

“And what do you do then?”

“I don't know. I have no plan, okay? I just need to tell him.”

“That seems unfair. You're just telling him for your own sake.”

“I just want him to know that he's loved. Okay? Even if he can't understand it. I love him in every way. And I want him to know that no matter how long he lives, and no matter how many people he meets, no one will ever be able to love him as deeply as I do. That privilege is mine.”

The trees whisper. The river runs.

“Will you be able to go back after that? To what you were?”

“I don't know. In time, perhaps. Perhaps in a very long time.”

“No, it will never be the same again. Even if you eventually come to terms with the fact that he doesn't want you like that, you can never be as close again after this.”

“You're right.”

“And could you bear being with Sherlock without being his very best friend? Just an old acquaintance?”

“No. I can't live with having any less than this. Yet this isn't enough either.” John pauses. “Perhaps the least unbearable way is to not have it at all.”

“So that's what you're going in there to do. This is the end. Is it worth it?”

“I told you, didn't I? I'm not half as good a man as he is. Harry, I can't even look him in the eye any more. The damage is there, whether I acknowledge it or not.”

Harry nods slowly. “You think it's not possible to cause any more damage.”

John looks steadily forward. “I've already lost him.” River and trees become blurry and his voice a strained whisper. “When- At what point- did that happen?”

***

Baker Street feels like a caress to the soles of John's feet. Everything is so familiar it is as though he has never been anywhere else for the entirety of his life.

He stops outside 221B. The light is on in their living room – in Sherlock's living room. He looks for the familiar silhouette, half expecting Sherlock to somehow know he is coming and stand there, waiting for him. But the window is empty.

“Here you are then”, Harry says. “Mark this date. The 12th of February. Confession Day.”

He turns to her, standing beside him at the foot of the steps.

“It will be okay”, she says. “Eventually, it will be.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Listen, I'm so sorry, John.”

“I know.” He turns his eyes to the pavement. “You know what, though? It's better this way. It's better to know. Who we really are… it matters. Even if it's painful. It just does.”

“And you will handle it. You will not break and you will not drink.”

“I promise. For Rosie and for you.”

“Well then.” He looks up again to see her sad smile. “Off you go.”

“Yeah- I love you, Harry. Thank you. Just… thank you. I-”

She rolls her eyes. “Well I love you too and yes, I forgive you. Now go, moron.”

***

It is quiet inside. He looks up the stairs to the closed door. For the last time.

Sherlock will probably hear his footsteps on the stairs. There is no need to knock, Sherlock will already know.

The door handle greets him like a friend. For the last time.

“Sherlock?” he says quietly as he enters.

The living room is a mess. Books and papers everywhere, mixed up with weapons; the harpoon, a sword casually tossed to the floor. No blood on them, at least. Every surface of the kitchen is covered by experiments – John feels no desire to look more closely to identify which body parts they include.

In other words, it feels like home.

The heaps of papers and scientific magazines are more concentrated around the couch. And on the couch lies Sherlock Holmes himself, arms flung above his head, one leg dropping to the floor, one magazine awkwardly balancing on his chest and two more folded over his other leg. He is dressed in his soft cotton pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown, and he is asleep.

“Sherlock?” John whispers again, to be sure. Sherlock does not move. John hesitantly enters the room and closes the door behind him. He does not think he has ever found Sherlock sleeping so deeply that he is not awoken by unexpected sounds. The thought makes him worried and he quickly moves a few more steps, until he sees Sherlock's chest slowly rising and falling.

John stops and lets out a long breath he was not aware he was holding. He has some more time, then, before he has to burn.

This is not at all what he expected to find here. He rarely sees Sherlock asleep. That really is too bad, because the sight is adorable. Sherlock's face is completely smooth, not a trace of his hard and cold armour. John never thought Sherlock could actually look innocent and harmless like a little boy.

His face is peaceful, but the shadows under his eyes speak of several days without sleep. He has grown thin as well – someone should be here to make sure he eats properly. The shirt is tugged up a bit, revealing a pair of prominent hipbones. John's breath hitches for a moment when his eyes linger there, and the pallor of the exposed skin makes him blush. He forces his eyes back to Sherlock's face, the now somewhat untamed curls, those lovely cheekbones. Those lips.

He is so defenceless and vulnerable John wants to turn around and not do this to him. Well that is not quite true – what he wants to do is kiss him awake. That would really get the message through, he supposes.

He would have cried at the sight of this man, but he does not have any tears left today. Instead he just stands there, filled with the aching love that is far too big for his chest.

“You are so beautiful”, he breathes, because this may be the only time he gets to say that.

John turns and walks into the kitchen. Might as well make some tea while he waits. It takes a bit longer than usual as he tries to avoid the suspicious contents of the kitchen.

He is almost done when he hears Sherlock suddenly stir.

“John?” he calls.

John creases his forehead and sticks his head out into the living room.

“Hello.”

Sherlock jumps at his voice and sits up at the sofa, magazines flying away from him. “John!” he exclaims, sleepy confusion in his eyes.

John cannot help chuckling. “Yes, didn't you hear me?”

Sherlock blinks and pauses a few moments too long before he mutters: “Yes.” Does he still call out to John even when he is not there, when he is practically _never_ there?

John clears his throat. “I'm making some tea. I'll be right there.”

It is suddenly difficult to breathe. He prepares the tea with stiff movements and carries it to the living room, setting it down on the coffee table before he can drop it from his tense hands. Sherlock is still sitting in the same spot, intently watching him move.

“Right. I… need to talk to you.”

“Yes?” Sherlock meets his eyes with a question in his.

“Can we- can we sit down? Here?” John moves to his armchair. “Come here”, he repeats, “sit down with me.”

Sherlock gets up and moves silently into the armchair opposite. He steeples his hands under his chin.

“Have some tea.”

“I'm good.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, I've made you tea, now drink it.”

John immediately regrets his tone, but Sherlock simply picks up his cup and takes a sip. John takes several, hoping it will make his hands stop shaking. It does not. He puts the cup down, and when he looks back up Sherlock's hands are steepled once more. All the sleepiness is gone from his face as if it was never there. His eyes are awake and they are fixed on John's face, darting around.

“So”, John says, trying to endure the stare without success. He gives in: “Let me hear it. Give me your deductions.”

“You want to talk to me about something important. Something personal. Could be something regarding your child, but more likely it concerns your sister. You've just spent quite a few hours wandering through London, and given the different districts you've passed you didn't have a certain purpose aside from walking.” Sherlock's voice is softer than his ordinary deduction voice. “You've been crying. A lot. And whatever it is you want to say, you don't think I'll like it.”

John smiles to his own lap. “Spot on.” He plucks at the armrest. “You haven't guessed what it is, then?” Cannot breathe.

“I would have said it could be your drinking. But you haven't had a drink in somewhere between two and three weeks.”

“Three.”

“I'm glad.”

“Thanks.” John quickly looks up to catch a faint smile on Sherlock's face.

There is a brief silence.

“Well, go on then”, Sherlock says.

“Right, yeah.” John feels as though he is made of iron, every muscle in his body working far harder than they need to. His vocal cords are too tight, making his voice strangely flat. “I… well I've done some thinking. A lot, a lot of thinking. About myself, and about Harry… and it hasn't been easy, it's been hell, actually. And I know I haven't been the best… I know I've been pushing you away and that wasn't my intention, I'm sorry about that. I just needed to figure this out, and I did. I'm fairly certain now – no, I am, I am certain.” He pauses. “Yes, I am very certain”, he breathes.

He glances up at Sherlock, who is still watching his every movement. “Of what, John?” he blurts out when the silence stretches.

“Sorry, yeah. I've found out, well I've realised… that I am bisexual.”

The word is heavy on his tongue. He looks up at Sherlock again, and sees vague amusement behind his eyes.

“Don't you dare laugh at that.”

“I'm not. You're obviously not joking. Wouldn't be much of a joke, anyway.” Sherlock is serious, despite the hint of a smile. “You know, it's all fine”, he adds, and John cannot help the corners of his mouth tugging up a bit in response.

“You knew, didn't you”, he accuses.

Sherlock's smile breaks through to his face, but he does not say anything.

“Well you could have told me.”

“You didn't seem very keen on discussing it.”

John sighs. “That's fair.”

There is a silence again. Sherlock must know now. John cannot bear checking it in his eyes. He picks up his cup again and drinks. It makes it more obvious how upset his hands are, and he is glad that he at least manages to coordinate the swallowing properly.

“That wasn't it”, Sherlock eventually says.

“No.”

“Well?”

“Well, I realised that this meant…” His breath is in his throat. “No, you know what, I shouldn't have said that. That's not important, it really isn't. The reason I didn't want to admit it is because… yeah, but it doesn't matter, I mean, that's not _why…_ This is just what it is. Regardless of… well I don't know, everybody else. It doesn't matter, I shouldn't have started there.” He quickly glances at Sherlock. “I'm not making any sense, am I.”

“Not in the slightest, no.”

“I thought it would be easier if I started with… turns out it isn't.”

This is the point where John's eyes would have become wet, had he had any more tears, any more at all. He opens his mouth several times, but he does not want to do this. No, he does not want to.

He looks back at Sherlock, pleading with his eyes. “Don't you know it by now?”

“No, John!” John's stomach clenches at Sherlock's sudden outburst. “I'm not some deduction machine! If you want to tell me something, then please do so!”

“No I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry I'm sorry”, John fumbles with his cup and puts it back on the table, why is he suddenly such a coward, trying to make Sherlock say something he can barely bear to say himself. The look in Sherlock's eyes is starting to mirror his own now – it is one of those rare moments when Sherlock's defences are all coming down. John had selfishly hoped that would not happen now, but still, he loves it, he loves to see the real Sherlock, he loves this man so much.

“I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock”, he hears himself ranting, “I know you're not a machine, you are- you cannot think that I- you are not a machine, you are a beautiful human being.”

His voice awkwardly cuts off when the last words fall out of his mouth. He flinches when he sees Sherlock's face, desperately searching for whatever it is John has to say.

“Damn it Sherlock, don't look so scared.”

“Then do speak up, John!”

“I will, I will. Just let me… God.” John presses his eyelids together. It feels as though he is about to run straight into a mountain face, his whole body is protesting and forbidding him to say the words out loud. When he opens his eyes again he does the only thing he knows how to do. Straightens his back, squares his shoulders, lifts his chin slightly. Forces himself to look Sherlock straight in the eye, and to be a soldier. There is only one way to burn.

“I'm in love with you. Sherlock. I'm in love with you.” His voice is not one for the army, it is nothing but a whisper when he continues, but he cannot stop now, he needs to not stop. “I love you, more than anyone. Ever. In my life. You are the love of my life, Sherlock Holmes.”

No more air. No more strength to hold the posture. “Sorry”, he whispers and then he sinks forward into his hands.

***

It is done now.

That was it.

He is done.

And he knows who he is. And he knows what he is capable of.

No one can say again that John Watson is not true to himself.

And even if he will never love again, he knows now what love is supposed to be.

John Watson has loved, deeper than he knew possible.

Which is a beautiful thing. Even if it has to end.

***

It is not okay. But it is what it is.

It is silent. Silent like death, only he hears his own breathing.

_It is what it is._

That is what Sherlock said, that one time he held him, gently repeating John's words. Perhaps he would say it now as well, if he were at all able to speak.

John opens his eyes.

Sherlock is a statue of stone in his chair. He blinks. And blinks. And blinks. John seems to have reduced this living man to only blinking. John waits. Looks for something, anything, in Sherlock's face. There is only blinking.

“Right”, he finally says. “Still scary, this.”

No reaction. The blinking comes at irregular intervals. He wishes he could deduce something out of that. Well, he did predict it, at least.

“Sherlock”, he sighs. “You don't have to say anything. I don't expect you to. I'll… You are my best friend, but I'm too in love with you, I'm not sure I can be with you and not be with you. You don't have to say anything, I understand. Just… just tell me you'll be fine and I'll leave, okay.”

“Donleave!” Sherlock splutters.

John gives a faded smile. “You're not dying, then. Good.” He gets up from the chair, but has barely turned his back before Sherlock has come to life and sprung out of his chair.

“John”, his voice is choked, “wait.”

John turns, and the sight before him is like a punch to the gut. The stone surface is gone. Sherlock's expression is naked and fierce, his eyes are wild and wet. He gapes as if he is trying to speak, but nothing comes out. He grabs John's wrist with both hands, clings to it as if it is his only refuge from drowning.

“Sherlock”, John whispers and suddenly he cannot help himself, he lifts his free hand and puts it against Sherlock's cheek. The muscles of Sherlock's face twist further, his eyes slam shut and force the tears out of them. “I know”, John whispers. “I'm sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, eyes still closed. “Stop”, he gasps.

John draws back his hand from Sherlock's cheek, putting it over his own eyes instead.

“Let me go now, Sherlock”, he says in a low voice. “I need to go now.” Sherlock's nails bore into his skin. “Please let me go now, I'll break if I stay.”

The grip on his wrist loosens, but is still firm. A soft sweeping touch over the thin skin covering his pulse. John removes the hand from his eyes.

Sherlock is looking at him now. His cheeks are brooks of tears, his eyes are so expressive and alive they are almost blinding John.

“John Watson.” Sherlock's lips shiver around his name. He makes a visible attempt to steady his voice and fails. “I- too. I'm. John. I love you. John? I'm in love.”

***

Gasping into Sherlock's shoulder. Still no tears left. One can cry anyway.

Handful of silk robe in his hands.

Smell smell smell.

Breathe. Breathe.

“Breathe.”

Who is saying that?

“Breathe.” It is John. Sherlock in his arms and by his neck is a tangle of tears and sobs and curls and a name.

“ _John. John. John._ ”

“Sherlock.”

John pulls his head back and puts his forehead against Sherlock's. He waits until Sherlock opens his eyes.

“Can I still come back? Can I come home?”

Sherlock floods with tears again. He closes his eyes and lets go of something between a sob and a laugh. He nods.

***

“Sherlock?” John is a murmur. “Does this mean I can kiss you?”

Sherlock is a whisper. “ _Please._ ”

So John does and it is gorgeous and Sherlock whimpers through his lips and John holds him to keep him still, and Sherlock seems to try to inhale John because he breathes in more than he breathes out until he is gasping.

“Breathe”, John murmurs against Sherlock's lips. And John notices that he himself should consider following this advice and he feels Sherlock trying to as well, and as they struggle to breathe normally John almost starts giggling, quickly composing himself again. But he feels Sherlock's body against him and it is warm and it is living and it is _Sherlock_ and the giggle finds its way out. And it echoes in Sherlock at once, and Sherlock's chuckle is so sweet, and they look at each other and it grows and they laugh even though it is not very funny, or maybe it is.

And it feels as though John has forgotten to breathe for thirty years without ever noticing, and now the air is rushing into his lungs and springing out again in hysterical laughter and he never intends to stop. And they cling to each other laughing and it fills them until they are bursting or falling or flying, and the air is cleaning John on the inside.

Rushing in, rushing out.

**Author's Note:**

> When you can't have your own happy ending, you can give John and Sherlock a thousand ones.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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